So Little Time (79 page)

As Fred stood there in the Mayflower he looked a little gray and tired to Jeffrey, but very gay, as if he should be carrying a box of orchids with a gay white ribbon around it, on his way upstairs to someone's room, but Fred was not carrying anything.

“Hello, Jeff,” Fred said. “Where are you going?”

It did not seem to Jeffrey that it was kind of Fred to ask, because it was quite obvious where he was going.

“I thought you and I were going to have a cocktail,” Jeffrey said, “in New York.”

“Oh, yes,” Fred said, “the girls.” He waved his hand airily like a bandleader when he said it. “I couldn't make it, Jeff, but then I heard you couldn't either.”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “were they on the telephone again?”

“My God,” Fred said. “All through the night one or the other of them was on it. They were still on it at half-past seven when I left for the plane.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “it's like a party line.”

“That's right,” Fred said. “Any time you lift up the receiver, they're on it.”

Then the subject was exhausted, exactly the way subjects were through all the years when Jeffrey and Fred had been left alone together; you could not keep going on about the telephone. They were still at the entrance to the bar.

“I was just going in to have a drink,” Jeffrey said. “Do you want a drink?”

Fred's expression was peculiar. He did not disapprove exactly because he could not and be a character in
The Beautiful and Damned
—and yet it was obvious that he did not want a drink.

“Well, not this morning, Jeff,” Fred said, and it sounded as if he had often said it in just that way and that it was never just this morning, but any other morning. “You see, I've got a little business, but don't mind me. I'll watch you. Don't let me keep you. I'll watch you.”

When Jeffrey entered the Men's Bar he was surprised to see how many of the patrons, like himself, must have been waiting for a drink. It was one of those modern bars with dim reddish lights, so dim that it was impossible to read a paper, so dim that it required almost a conscious effort to distinguish the potato chips from the cheese-encrusted popcorn. At high noon this faint religious glow gave everything, even the cold-sober bar boys, a dissipated aspect.

They sat down together on a bench before a small round table.

“A Scotch-and-soda,” Jeffrey said to the bar boy, and then he thought again. “A double Scotch-and-soda.”

“White Rock for me,” Fred said, “just White Rock,” and he smiled at Jeffrey apologetically. Their voices were low and furtive because of the lights.

“God damn it,” Jeffrey said as he looked around, “it's a little like going to church, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Fred said, “if you're mixing metaphors, I see what you mean. You know if I didn't have an appointment—” He hesitated. “You see, I heard the girls talking … I mean, you can't help overhearing when they get going. Well, I guess I'm down here for what you're down here for. That's all.”

It sounded pleasant. It sounded honest.

“I'll tell you, Fred,” Jeffrey said, “the woods are full of us.”

But Fred was not listening to him. He was listening to his own ideas.

“I couldn't sit there,” he said. “I've kept thinking, Jeff. I've always had a pretty damned good time, a pretty easy time. Well, I've got to pay it back somehow.”

Fred's statement had an honest dignity even in the bar.

“Yes,” Jeffrey said; “you're not the only one, Fred.”

But Fred was not listening to him. Fred was going on.

“Of course, I haven't had the experience you've had, Jeff, but I was in the R.O.T.C. at Yale. I was pretty good. I was a sergeant in the R.O.T.C.”

“I know,” Jeffrey said. “A whole lot didn't get over, Fred.”

It was another war and Jeffrey was not in it, but still he could feel a smug and completely superfluous sense of superiority. He could think of Fred going down to that bureau and telling someone of his experiences in the R.O.T.C., but Fred was going on.

“Of course,” Fred said, “I don't want to be swell-headed, Jeffrey. I suppose anyone can get a desk job here, but I don't want that. I don't care about rank. I just want to get in there and take a sock at somebody. I'm not in a wheel-chair yet, and I don't give a damn if Beckie thinks so.”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “does Beckie think so?”

“My God, Jeff,” Fred said, “what do women know about this sort of thing anyway? She didn't say so, but I sort of think she thinks so. Frankly, well, Beckie and I had a sort of a row all night. She's got the damnedest idea.”

“What idea?” Jeffrey asked.

“She's got the damnedest idea,” Fred said, “that I'm doing this for some sort of personal satisfaction—that it's just a sort of excuse to get away from her and home and the kids. I don't know what put it into her head, and it doesn't do any good to tell her that I'm not in a wheel-chair yet.”

The idea was firmly in Fred's mind that he was not in a wheel-chair yet.

“Well, I know a man down there,” Fred said. “I've never seen much of him, but he's quite a friend of mine—and I called him up and he asked me to come down. Did you ever hear of him? His name is Swinburne—Bill Swinburne.”

Jeffrey set down his glass. He was thinking that they would walk out on you if you were to put an inartistic coincidence like that in a play.

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I know him. I've been down there myself, just now.”

It was pathetic to see Fred's face light up.

“And now you're celebrating,” Fred said. “Gosh that's swell, Jeff!” and he held out his hand across the table.

“Not exactly,” Jeffrey said. “You see, I'm going back home. But go ahead and try it,” he said, “maybe you'll do better. You see—well, perhaps I'm silly—I used to be shot at, once. I know it's too much to ask—Well, I'm going back home.”

It was dusk, almost dark, when the train passed through Wilmington and sped along the Delaware to Philadelphia. As Jeffrey sat staring out of the black window the sky was aglow with light. He could see the glare over factories in the distance and the floodlights of the shipyards and the rolling mills. He was thinking of the young men he had seen, and, God, they were beautiful, and they were the ones who would see the show. It was not fair, because he could have died more easily, having lived—but they would see the show. He was reminded of the older men during the last war—they had seemed very old, but they must have been about his own age. They were always saying the same thing and always selecting the most inopportune occasions on which to say it. They were always saying that if they were twenty years younger, why they would be there too, and how much they envied the boys their chance. Jeffrey could remember how often he had brushed those remarks aside as insincere and hypocritical. There was one thing he would not do. He would not say the same thing to anyone now. It was their war, not his war.

“Good evening, Mr. Wilson,” the doorman said. “It's been kind of a mean day, hasn't it?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said. “It has been a kind of a mean day.”

He was in the hall of his apartment just as though he had not been anywhere in particular, and when he was taking off his overcoat, he heard Madge calling from the living room.

“Oo-hoo?” Madge was calling. “Is that you, Jeff?”

She smiled at him and she kissed him, but she was waiting to hear his news. He knew he had to tell her, although he knew from her voice that she had guessed already.

“How was it,” she asked, “down in Washington?” But he did not want to go into it then.

“I'm glad I went,” he said, “but there wasn't much down there, Madge.”

There was one thing about it. He could see she had been thinking that, in spite of everything, they might have taken him and sent him somewhere. Her face was alight with sheer relief that he was not going, and it made him feel better.

“Oh,” she said, “poor darling!” And she kissed him again. He wished that she might have said something else.

“Dinner's waiting,” she said. “Do you want a cocktail? You look tired, dear.”

“No thanks,” Jeffrey answered. “I've had quite a few already.”

She held his hand.

“Oh,” Madge said, “poor darling.”

“For God's sake,” Jeffrey said, “don't call me ‘poor darling,'” and then he was sorry about it and he held her hand tighter. “I didn't mean exactly that,” he told her. “You see when I saw the boys down there, I mean the young officers, there didn't seem to be much I could do right now. Madge, I'll tell you what—”

“What?” she asked.

“We'll call up Jim tonight. Somebody ought to see him, Madge. I ought to get out there for Christmas.”

“Jeff,” Madge said, “can't you do it later? You're running everywhere, lately.”

“I can take a plane,” Jeffrey said. “I'm not in a wheel-chair yet.”

It was a question of mathematics again. If he were to call Jim at eight it would only be five out there. A young officer would not be in his quarters by five, particularly in wartime. It would be near the time for Retreat and though he had never seen the camp where Jim was, it would be like all those other camps, or forts, or whatever they called them now. There would be the same monotonous rows of barracks with their Battery streets and the Company streets. There would be the same dull hum of voices and the stamping of feet on the wooden floors, and the Companies, and the Batteries, coming out to form their ranks, in the evening light. The officers who would take Retreat would be moving out to their places, and there would be the commands and the Batteries would be present or accounted for, and the senior officer would take over. There would be parade rest and the bugles would be blowing, and their thin notes would fill the silence. Retreat, he had often thought, was the closest thing to prayer in war; and Jim would be at Retreat, but he might be in his quarters later, say at eight o'clock his time.

It was after eleven in the East when the operator said that the party was ready. Jeffrey and Madge were sitting in the upstairs study. He first thought he could get it all into three minutes but of course Madge would speak to him too. After all Jim was her son as much as his son. He had to say it all very quickly, and there was too much to say, for the time in which to say it. He always seemed to be talking to Jim across vast spaces, both of distance and of time. He was always trying to bridge those unbridgeable gaps, and as long as he lived, or Jim lived, he would always be trying. Jim would not care so much because he would never perceive those distances. He was too young. He was so young that he would think, no matter what might happen, that it would not be he—it could not be he—that he would live forever; and Jeffrey had thought that once.

“Hello,” Jim was saying, and he sounded impatient, as though he had been on the line for a long while.

Usually the sound of Jim's voice brought Jim back as though he were right there, but it was different this time. In spite of the clearness of the connection, Jim was very far away.

“Hello,” Jeffrey said, “Jim.” He had to speak fast because there was not much time. “How's everything out there?”

“Fine.” Jim's voice was louder. “Everything's fine. We're—” Jim seemed to hesitate. “We're pretty busy now. How's everything back home?”

“Fine,” Jeffrey said. “Your mother's right here. She's going to speak to you in a minute. Jim, I'm calling about Christmas. I think I can make it. I've got reservations …”

There was a slight pause and Jeffrey was very conscious of the pause.

“I wouldn't try that,” he heard Jim say. “It—Well, put it this way. Sally will be back East by Christmas.”

It seemed to Jeffrey that his heart had stopped, that everything had stopped, but his own voice was measured. He knew there were things you could not say.

“Suppose I put it this way,” he said slowly, “suppose I come tomorrow.”

There was another pause and he knew that Jim was thinking.

“I don't think so,” Jim said. Jim was being careful, but he knew exactly what Jim meant. “It wouldn't be worth your while.”

It hurt Jeffrey at the moment and he could not hide his hurt.

“I think you might have told me, Jim,” he said.

“There are some things you don't know until just about the last minute. You ought to know.”

The time was running short and he was sitting there. There was nothing he could do—nothing he could say. He felt that his voice was choked and hoarse and he cleared his throat.

“If you get the chance—” he was speaking very slowly—“call me again, Jim. Will you do that, please?”

“Yes,” Jim said, “if I get the chance. You know how it is, but it's fine out here. I wish to God that you were here.”

Jeffrey cleared his throat again.

“Well, keep your shirt on,” Jeffrey said, “and don't take any wooden money. Your mother wants to speak to you.”

He handed Madge the receiver and nodded. He noticed the mark on it from the perspiration on his hand.

“Hello, darling,” Madge was saying, but Jeffrey was not listening. He knew that Jim would not tell her and there was no need of telling Madge—no need to worry her because Jim was going overseas. Out there on the Pacific Coast, it would be the East Indies, or Australia, or Hawaii—he hoped to heaven it might only be Hawaii, but there was no way of telling.

“Darling,” Madge was saying, “are you warm enough? Is it raining all the time?”

But Jeffrey was only half listening. Jim was going and he knew that feeling because he had gone out once. He had left from old Camp Merritt just across the river, with perhaps two hundred other casual officers; and that was a queer word when you thought of it—“casual.” You never knew when it was coming. You were only told to have everything ready, not to leave, to be there waiting. They had been awakened at four in the morning, he remembered, and by daylight they walked in columns of twos along the road to Fort Lee where an old ferryboat was waiting. They were going and there was no way of going back. He had seen the buildings of New York, but they were not going there. They were as good as gone already. They were on the pier and he remembered the sound of the donkey engines. He remembered the lines of troops waiting with their duffel bags to go aboard and to take their places below. He remembered the side of the transport painted crazily in the camouflage that they did not use any more. He remembered the voices of the troops. They were on the pier but they were as good as gone already. Good-by Broadway, hello France. You were as good as gone already and no one ever knew. That was the way you went to war.